


build a town at the bottom of the ocean

by liketheroad



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 21:56:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liketheroad/pseuds/liketheroad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur buys an island.  It takes Eames a year to figure out which one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Arthur buys an island.

It takes Eames a year to figure out which one.

\---

He knocks on Arthur’s door, and Arthur greets him with a shotgun.

It’s about the welcome Eames expected.

Nothing else is.

\---

For example, when he sees it’s Eames, Arthur lowers the shotgun instead of jabbing Eames in the chest with it and ordering Eames off his property.

Another example. Arthur’s house is as cluttered and chaotic on the inside as it is disarmingly ramshackle on the outside. Eames is pretty sure he saw some shingles on the front lawn, and after the hike to get here had taken almost a half hour, he’d been expecting something a little more auspicious. Maybe even a moat.

After being invited in, Eames almost immediately identifies as least three different cats.

Seeing the questioning look in Eames’ eyes, Arthur shrugs nonchalantly, and explains, “For the mice.”

Arthur then offers Eames a seat and a cup of tea. In yet another instance in a growing string of bewildering turns of events, the tea is perfect. Strong and calming, exactly like tea is meant to be.

Although Eames is willing to entertain the possibility that this second quality might have something to do with Arthur’s presence, as well. Disconcerting though it may be, Arthur seems to be radiating tranquility.

Arthur doesn’t ask Eames why he’s here or how he found out where Arthur was. One might reasonably expect him to be more curious, particularly when they haven’t spoken in almost two years and by all counts, not even Cobb knew where Arthur went after they disbanded at LAX.

But Arthur defies such natural curiosity, apparently preferring to sip his own tea in silence. After some time, one of the cats hops onto Arthur’s lap. He puts down his cup of tea and rubs the cat obligingly on its belly.

Eames stares, quite certain his mouth is hanging open slightly, but unable to do anything about it. As he watches Arthur pet his cat, Eames finally starts to take in other details as well.

Like how Arthur’s feet are bare, despite the damp chill in the air outside his surprisingly cozy living room. Like his jumper, which looks suspiciously homemade and is possibly the most terrible article of clothing Eames has ever seen, which is certainly saying something. The jumper is a truly horrible shade of mustard yellow, a knitted monstrosity that has two entirely different patterns in the sleeves (which are also vastly differing lengths) and has a large hole in the left shoulder.

Like the stacks of books and records and maps piled everywhere around them, none of which, at least from casual observation, appear to have anything to do with extraction or even architecture. Eames is pretty sure he spies all of the Harry Potter series and at least two Hardy Boys mysteries.

Like the faint smell of cedar and cinnamon in the air, like the strangely soothing sound of the ocean crashing against the cliffs in the distance.

Like the rumpled mess of Arthur’s hair, the smoothness of his cheeks, the conspicuous lack of dark circles under his eyes.

When he catches Eames staring, Arthur smiles.

This is perhaps the most disconcerting development of all.

Attempting to regain his footing, Eames clears his throat and takes a long sip of tea.

Arthur continues to smile at him benignly.

“Look, I have a job--”

“I’m retired,” Arthur interrupts, firm, but not unkind.

Eames stares at him blankly. “Not even _Cobb_ is retired!” he protests, voice faintly incredulous.

Arthur simply shrugs and carries on petting the purring cat in his lap.

“Nevertheless, I am,” Arthur confirms, sounding relaxed possibly to the point of being zen.

“Am I even in the right place?” Eames exclaims, not sure if he’s addressing Arthur or himself.

“Not if you’re looking for a point man,” Arthur supplies, whether he’s being spoken to or not.

“I meant - are you even Arthur?”

Arthur’s smile grows in prominence on his face. “I know what you meant.”

“And?”

He laughs softly. “I’m Arthur.”

“Are you sure?” Eames questions skeptically, padding himself down, searching for his totem.

For the first time, Arthur’s eyes darken, just a little.

“I’m real, this is real,” he assures Eames, his voice slightly strained, authoritative.

Eames gives up looking for his poker chip, and Arthur relaxes, smiling again.

“I wish you’d stop that,” Eames mutters, despite himself.

“Stop what?”

“Smiling!”

Arthur does. “I’m sorry I make you uncomfortable,” he says, sounding sincere.

Eames sighs, put off with himself. “Don’t be sorry, jesus. This is your home.”

Arthur catches his smile half-formed, but there’s no disguising the pleasure in his voice when he says, “Yes. It is.”

There’s a long pause, and then the most stunning thing that has ever happened to Eames, in all his varied and often fantastical life, occurs.

Arthur looks at him seriously, and says, “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”

\---

Arthur has goats. And a horse.

He tells Eames the horse’s name is Shadowfax without a hint of embarrassment and assures Eames she’s very well behaved.

“You can take her out for a ride, later, if you like. It’s a nice way to see the rest of the island.”

Currently, they’re standing inside Arthur’s barn, one of the three structures visible from his house. One apparently stores Arthur’s well, and the other is a lighthouse.

The barn is larger than one horse and several goats necessitate, but Arthur explains that it was already there when he purchased the island. He talks about this transaction like it’s perfectly ordinary, rather than at least a little bit insane. This is par for the course of all Arthur’s explanations, it transpires.

As they leave the barn, he says, “I’m thinking of getting some chickens,” and then actually looks inquisitively at Eames, like he’s hoping for a second opinion.

“Why not a cow, too, darling. I imagine it would be nice to have fresh milk around here.”

Arthur ignores or isn’t aware of the vaguely hysterical edge in Eames’ voice, and just nods contemplatively, and says, “I only have groceries flown in every three weeks, so I usually end up using powdered milk a lot of the time. Maybe it would be worth it to keep a milk cow around.”

Eames wants to grab Arthur by the shoulders and shake him, but instead, he asks, “Do you know how to milk a cow?”

“No, but I’m sure I could learn.”

Eames can think of nothing to say in response to this, so he nods in what he hopes is an encouraging manner and follows Arthur down the path.

They walk for roughly 20 minutes, and eventually run out of ground.

They pass through a ring of pine trees and there’s a rocky descent, and the ocean below.

Arthur breathes deeply. Eames takes a cautious step away from him. Incredibly, Arthur barks out a short, genuine laugh.

“I’m not going to push you, Eames,” he says, chuckling around his words.

Eames smiles tentatively. “Why did you bring me here, then?”

Arthur shakes his head, still disproportionately amused. “I come here everyday. You just came along, this time.”

“Waiting for the whales of August?” Eames quips.

Arthur just tosses his head back, laughing again. “Something like that.”

\---

Arthur makes stew. It’s delicious.

There’s wine. It’s simple, uncomplicated, but also quite good.

“I made it myself,” Arthur announces after his second glass, his cheeks slightly pink.

“Well done,” Eames says sincerely before the oddness of any of this can creep into his voice.

Arthur accepts the compliment gracefully, and refills Eames’ glass.

A cat winds its way around Eames’ ankles, and Eames laughs, for a second, imagining it had been Arthur’s foot he felt pressed up against him instead.

Arthur smiles like he’s sharing the joke, and then he reaches across the table, touching Eames’ hand, however briefly, and Eames realizes he probably is.

\---

There isn’t a second bed, or a second bedroom. There’s just the main living area, the kitchen bleeding into the bookshelves and comfy chairs scattered throughout the house, a minuscule bathroom with just enough space for a shower and a toilet, no sink, and the equally cramped space into which Arthur has managed to fit a very large bed. It takes up almost the entire room.

The bed is covered by an afghan that is of similar quality and aesthetic offensiveness as Arthur’s jumper.

Eames looks dubiously back and forth between the bed and Arthur.

Arthur pats him consolingly on the back. “I’m not starting the wood stove until at least the first snow. You’ll be glad for the extra warmth.”

This is the first time it has actually occurred to Eames that Arthur means for them to share.

“I can take one of the couches out front,” Eames offers, thumbing behind him.

Arthur shakes his head. “Nonsense. None of them are long enough for you, and like I said, it’s going to get cold. Sharing body heat will help.”

“Are you offering to snuggle with me, darling?” Eames asks, voice light and joking.

Arthur just shrugs, and says, “I’m warning you in advance that I have very cold feet.”

Eames swallows with difficulty, and says, “Noted,” with the degree of solemnity he feels it deserves.

They change in separate corners of the room, and Eames is glad he bothered to back more than one day’s worth of clothing. They both forgo teeth brushing, and climb into bed, picking opposite sides without discussing it.

Arthur turns off the lamp on his side, and says, “Good night, Eames,” in a voice already half taken by sleep.

Eames responds, “Sleep well, Arthur,” but if Arthur is still awake, he doesn’t reply.

When Eames wakes up the next morning, he’s lost most of his share of the blankets, but he’s still comfortably warm, likely because Arthur is wrapped around him instead, lying half on top of Eames like he belongs there.

Instead of getting up, Eames runs an experimental hand through Arthur’s hair, and Arthur makes a muffled, pleased sound, and burrows in closer against Eames’ neck.

Eames draws in a stuttering breath, and stays exactly where he is.

\---

When he wakes up again, Arthur is gone, but the afghan has been wrapped securely around Eames to make up for it.

He sits up in bed, and listens carefully. He can hear Arthur talking to his cats, he can smell porridge and coffee.

Eames gets out of bed, and leans in the door frame of the bedroom, watching Arthur stirring honey into his bowl of porridge.

He looks up, and smiles at Eames.

Eames smiles back.

\---

They go for another walk after breakfast, longer this time. It takes them over an hour before Arthur stops.

Eames looks at him curiously, but Arthur doesn’t notice, distracted. He rifles through the satchel he has strapped across his chest, digging out a pair of binoculars.

He hands them to Eames, and then pulls out another pair for himself. Eames holds them uncertainly.

Arthur hunches down amidst the trees, casting his eyes skyward, binoculars held loosely in his hands.

“What are we doing here, Arthur? Give me a clue,” Eames says, crouching beside him.

“Bird watching,” Arthur explains airily, leaning into Eames’ shoulder, just a little.

“Bird watching?”

Arthur nods, and pats his bag significantly. “I keep track of everything I see in my notebook, let me know if you spot anything interesting.”

Eames has no idea what would qualify as such, but he nods anyway, and joins Arthur in watching the sky.

\---

There’s a thunderstorm that night. All the cats hide, but Arthur revels in it, standing out on his porch, letting the wind and rain batter down hard against him. Eames watches from inside, where it’s warm and dry.

At one point, Arthur closes his eyes, face upturned, grinning rapturously.

Eames has never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

\---

Arthur has a very clear routine, possibly this is what comes from living for over a year in utter solitude, possibly this is just Arthur being Arthur.

He gets up with the sun every morning, makes coffee and breakfast, adjusting his patterns only far enough to make enough of both for Eames instead of only himself. He goes birdwatching in the mornings, returns home for lunch, and then goes out to the barn to feed his goats and brush Shadowfax while she munches on carrots and barley.

In the afternoons, he reads and listens to records, and there is just enough room on his favorite couch for Eames to sit beside Arthur, reading over his shoulder and making the occasional comment that Arthur always smiles at absently, even though Eames knows he’s not really paying any attention.

In the early evening, Arthur usually bakes something, a pie or a loaf of bread, and he knits while he waits for whatever is in the oven to finish cooking. He’s an abysmal knitter, as his jumper and afghan can attest to, but he seems determined to keep trying, all the same.

It’s usually dark by the time Arthur starts dinner, and he shoos away Eames’ half-hearted offers to help.

One night, Eames asks, “Where did you learn to cook like this?” over a delectable mouthful of chicken pot pie.

Arthur waves his fork modestly and says, “I taught myself,” adding, upon Eames’ impressed look, “You should have been here the first few months. It was all burnt toast and half-cooked meat. Terrible.”

“I’m sorry I missed it,” Eames teases, but when Arthur looks up at him, after, eyes soft and serious, Eames realizes he actually means it.

\---

After the first night, Arthur doesn’t bother waiting until they’re both asleep to roll unconsciously against Eames. As soon as he’s shut off the light, he says, “Good night, Eames,” and then curls up against him, tucking his head in the crook of Eames’ neck, breathing shallowly, drifting off so effortlessly that no one would ever think Arthur’d spent half of his life unable to sleep without the aid of a PASIV.

Sleep starts coming to Eames almost as easily, after he’s been there for a few weeks. Arthur remarks that the sea air must be agreeing with Eames.

Eames thinks Arthur’s company probably has a lot more to do with it.

\---

Arthur’s island is roughly 60 kilometres off the coast of Newfoundland. Evidently he brokered the sale from the government of Canada, or possibly the French, it’s not entirely clear to Eames which.

After he’s been there for over two months, Eames finally takes Shadowfax out for a ride, and it takes them almost an hour to get all the way across.

The helicopter Eames flew himself over in is still sitting in the eastern most clearing, waiting for him. He doesn’t even slow as he rides past it on his way back to Arthur’s house.

When Eames returns, Arthur smiles at him and holds up a plate.

“Apple pie?”

Eames takes the pie and sits down at the table beside Arthur.

They eat in silence, save the occasional murmur of appreciation. The pie, like everything else Arthur has made, apart from his knitting projects, is superb.

This time, when Eames feels something warm press against his leg, he already has all the cats accounted for, so he knows for certain that it’s Arthur.

In case there was any remaining doubt, Arthur smiles at him softly, and says, “I’m glad you’re finally here.”

\---

At the time, Arthur’s comment over pie had seemed sweet, but wholly nonsensical. But lying in bed later that night, with Arthur sleeping against him, it occurs to Eames that, technically, he _had_ been invited.

When they’d gotten off the plane and collected their luggage after performing inception, Eames had waited for Arthur, and Arthur hadn’t seemed surprised.

They’d left the airport together, queuing up for a taxi.

Arthur was in front, and so he’d gotten in first, looking at Eames over his shoulder. He’d said, “I’m off to live a life of rugged individualism, unless you want to join me, that is.”

Eames had laughed, assuming, quite reasonably, he thought, that Arthur was joking, and he’d closed Arthur’s door for him, waiting his turn for the next taxi.

Apparently Arthur hadn’t been joking after all.

Not about any of it.

\---

“I came here to convince you to leave with me,” Eames begins over breakfast the next morning, staring hard at his hands instead of looking at Arthur.

“I know,” Arthur responds simply.

Eames nods a little. “But I think now - I think I might,” he forces himself to look up, and, sure enough, Arthur is smiling encouragingly, eyes patient. “I think I might stay,” Eames finishes, wondering why he feels so uncertain, when Arthur has seemed anything but since the moment Eames arrived.

True to form, Arthur just nods, still smiling, and says, “As long as you like.”

Eames doesn’t say so, not aloud, but he thinks they both understand, now, that this will probably be a very long time indeed.


	2. build a big log cabin in the country

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cobb and the kids come for Thanksgiving, Eames flies his helicopter, Arthur cooks a turkey (yo), Cobb is occasionally a douche, and Eames chops wood.

When Arthur decides he wants to slaughter one of their turkeys for Thanksgiving, Eames is fine with that.

He’s even fine with helping Arthur hold the poor bird down while Arthur chops off its head with an axe.

That’s all par for the course, really. At this stage.

He’s fine with the turkey blood and the unnecessary American holiday, which they are, to complicate matters, celebrating at the beginning of October because Arthur informs him that they should adhere to Canadian Thanksgiving protocol, since technically their island used to be part of Canada.

Eames is fine with all of that, and for his hard-won ability to roll with the considerable insanity Arthur’s life has brought into Eames’, he thinks he deserves a bloody metal.

What he’s less fine with is the fact that apparently _Cobb_ is coming to this little celebration of thankfulness. Particularly when he would have been quite happy, quite thankful, even, to never see Cobb again. Once almost getting lost in limbo together was enough for one lifetime, thank you very much.

But when Arthur asks, Eames says yes.

And so at the appointed time, Eames leaves Arthur and their house, which smells entirely of turkey and which Eames never wants to leave, even on a the days when it doesn’t smell so delicious.

He leaves the house, and gets in his helicopter for the first time in two years (after doing routine maintenance on it, of course - he may somewhat loathe Cobb, but there are children involved, honestly) and goes to pick them up at the St Johns’ port authority.

\---

“Where’d you get this thing, by the way?”

“Greenland.”

“Greenland? What were you doing in Greenland?”

Eames keeps his eyes on the controls, on the sky.

“Getting pissed and stealing a helicopter, mainly.”

Dom chuckles dryly.

Arthur does it better.

“Which you then flew to Arthur’s island.”

Eames has to admit, it’s worth chuckling over. When you put it like that.

“That’s correct. I also spent some time watching YouTube tutorials on my phone about how to fly a helicopter, whilst deciding which type of helicopter to steal.”

“Also while drunk, I assume.”

It amuses Eames that Cobb can manage to sound disapproving, given his track record.

“Indeed. Had to brush up on my training. The SAS was a long time ago.”

Dom tips his head more solemnly at that.

“It certainly was.”

He looks out the window, pensive, probably thinking of Mal, of how he met her through the military’s dream sharing training program, just like the rest of them did.

But Dom and Mal were always the academics, only Arthur and Eames had been the soldiers.

“Why get drunk and steal a helicopter at all?” Dom wants to know.

Eames shrugs, still mainly focused on flying said helicopter.

“Seemed like the thing to do, at the time. I suppose I needed some liquid courage.”

He assumes Dom won’t take him seriously, which is why he’s willing to admit it at all.

Dom _does_ take him seriously though. The wanker.

“So you came all the way to _Greenland_ , spent all that time looking for him, and you still had to get drunk to decide it was worth stealing a helicopter and actually going to him.”

He shakes his head, tutting disapprovingly.

“I still went, didn’t I?” Eames mutters, a mite petulantly.

Dom pats his arm.

Condescending bastard.

Another shared trait Eames finds far less difficult to stomach from Arthur.

“I was surprised you found him at all. He kept it very hush hush.”

Eames nods grimly, and then catches himself, noting the change in Dom’s tone.

The knowledge there.

“You _knew_! Where he was! You swore to me that you didn’t!” He makes sure to channel his outrage into his words, not his hands. He’s not crashing them over this, after all.

“Of course I knew,” Cobb responds loftily. “It’s Arthur. He told me his general plan, and I put him in contact with some people Saito recommended to help broker the deal. Buying an island from a domestic government isn’t exactly a walk in the park.”

“So all those times I went and asked you to tell me where he was and you claimed to have no idea?”

Dom shrugs, unconcerned. “I wanted to be sure you were serious. I have a satellite feed that helps me monitor what’s going on, you know, just to check in with him, but as far as I could tell, Arthur was happy before you came. I wasn’t about to let you disrupt that if you weren’t even going to make it worth Arthur’s while.”

Eames takes a moment to be amazed that Dom’s life experience has taught him so little with respect to the folly of attempting to control the lives of his loved ones, and then says, with feeling,

“Have I ever told you how glad I am we’re not better friends?”

Dom just laughs, and at least has the decency to look slightly rueful.

“I get that a lot.”

Eames nods, but restrains himself to that.

They continue flying over the ocean, and Dom looks out onto the water while James and Phillipa sleep in the back seat.

\---

Eames’ has been worried that, upon Dom’s arrival, he would lose Arthur.

Not _to_ Dom exactly, nothing quite so simple as jealously.

No, he’d been worried he would lose the Arthur he’d come to know, to love, in the past two years.

The Arthur who wears jeans and badly knitted jumpers, the one who makes perfect pies but still can’t quite get his crepe recipe the way he wants it. The Arthur who spends his mornings birdwatching in utter earnestness, who likes to go on long walks around his island, his arm linked with Eames’.

That’s the Arthur Eames loves. Not the buttoned-up, slicked-back point man who had remained stubbornly at Cobb’s side through the worst of it, through everything.

He doesn’t want to see his Arthur disappear in the face of Cobb’s return, and his personal distaste for Cobb aside, that’s the real reason Eames objected to Cobb’s coming.

But, after they land, wake the children and carry them into the house, Arthur is on the porch waiting for them, waving exuberantly, gesturing towards the lemonade he’s just made, and Eames realizes all his worries have been for nothing.

This Arthur isn’t a mirage, he’s not a product of hope and isolation. Their world, fragile and odd though it may be, can withstand a little intrusion from the outside world, it can hold.

And when Eames sees the way Arthur smiles at Cobb, the way Cobb smiles back, he supposes perhaps Dom is good for something after all.

When Cobb pulls Arthur close and they embrace like brothers, Eames supposes he’s even thankful that Cobb came.

\---

The children love everything about the island. They love Shadowfax and Bessy, the milk cow purchased last spring. They love the cats and, remarkably, the knitted toys Arthur has made for them. They love the food and walks in the woods and James, in particular, seems oddly taken with birdwatching. They love the sea air and the stories Arthur tells them at night, curled together on the swing he and Eames built into the porch.

Most of all, they love Eames.

Dom is mildly alarmed by this, and doesn’t keep his cynical interpretation of these events to himself.

“Stop conning my children, Eames. I know you’re probably getting a little rusty out here, but they’re not marks for you to practice on.”

Eames opens his mouth to defend himself - it just so happens he _likes_ the little sprogs - when Arthur does it for him.

“Nonsense, Dom. Nobody’s practicing for anything. Eames has always been great with children.” Arthur smiles at him, looking dangerously like he’s about to pat Eames’ head.

Eames leans away, just in case.

“He’s very maternal,” Arthur adds calmly, a sort of benign smile on his face.

Dom squints, still suspicious, and even Eames is forced to demand, “What? Since when?”

Arthur’s smile broadens, and he _does_ pat Eames on the head, even though he has to stretch awkwardly to do it.

“Since always.”

\---

When they have the actual Thanksgiving meal, Arthur makes them go around the table and say something they’re thankful for.

The children really take to it, and Eames suspects Arthur knows something about the Cobb family traditions that Eames doesn’t, so he goes along with it, saying he’s thankful for the meal and for the fact that Arthur does all the cooking.

He means it teasingly, a bit of gentle mocking, but Arthur’s approach is more serious.

When it’s his turn, he straightens up his shoulders, fixes his eyes intently on Eames, and says, “I”m thankful for you. That you came, that you stayed.”

Cobb, finally making himself useful, clears his throat before Eames can figure out how to respond, or if he even can, and calls a toast.

They all raise their glasses, even the children, and just before they clink their glasses together, Cobb says, “To family, huh,” and they all toast in silent agreement.

\---

Once the children are asleep, the three of them smoke cigars on the porch swing.

Possibly it’s the port talking, but Eames feels compelled to tell Cobb he’s recently been entertaining the notion of hating him slightly less.

“You’re not as terrible in small doses, off the job,” he announces generously, smiling sideways at Dom.

When not leading us into a war zone without any way out.

When not shooting Arthur in the kneecap with your subconscious.

Dom laughs.

“Thank you, Eames. I’m sure I appreciate that.”

Arthur is sitting between them, and he nudges Eames then leans the other way, nudging Dom.

Eames supposes Arthur appreciates their efforts to get along. To make peace for the holidays, to make peace with Arthur’s choices. Even if Eames wishes Arthur wasn’t still choosing Cobb and Cobb likely wishes Arthur had never chosen Eames.

They smoke in silence. Eames knows they’re all trying a bit too hard to enjoy each other’s company, but they keep trying anyway, and Eames likes to think the trying is what matters.

That’s what families do, after all.

\---

Cobb and his sprogs have taken over the bedroom, because Arthur insisted.

Even so, there isn’t exactly room for them all, and Eames takes some comfort knowing Cobb probably gets kicked and elbowed in the face by one or both of his children on multiple occasions in a given night.

It’s cold comfort, though, given that Eames and Arthur have been marooned on the living room floor.

And it’s October. Early October, mind, but it’s also early October on the Atlantic.

In other words, Arthur loses the fight about not needing to start the wood stove before the first snowfall once Eames learns he will be sleeping on the _floor_ for the duration.

They have a woodshed, and it’s always at least partially stocked, but on the third day of the Cobb visit, Eames goes into the woods and cuts himself a new tree anyway.

He spends a whole day at it, sharpening the axe and stripping away the bark, methodically chopping the tree into even, fireplace-friendly sizes.

Phillipa and James bore of his activities quickly, running off to play in the barn with the animals, and Cobb wanders off to watch them, but Eames feels Arthur’s eyes on him the whole time he’s out there in the yard, chopping wood.

It’s cold, of course, that’s the only reason he’s even _doing_ this, but the exertion warms him up considerably, and eventually Eames strips off his jacket and flannel shirt, chopping in nothing but a flimsy tank-top, sweat-streaked arms and tattoos on display.

Eames is willing to admit this sartorial choice might have something to do with Arthur watching him from the kitchen window.

He’s warm enough to warrant the strip show, but that doesn’t necessitate the artistry Eames puts into it, the slowness with which he removes his clothes and the lazy way he starts swinging the axe, hardly thinking about the task anymore, all about the performance.

When Eames finally tires, shouldering his shirt back on and carrying in an armful of logs into the house, Arthur makes a noise that is delicious in its promise, but excoriating, too, because they both know the promise will go unfulfilled.

“This is why we should never have visitors ever again, darling,” Eames informs him silkily, passing Arthur’s frozen form on his way to the wood box, running a finger along Arthur’s chest as he goes.

Arthur makes another desperate kind of “hunghing” noise, and Eames would laugh if desire wasn’t strangling his vocal cords.

Eames deposits the wood in its box and turns back toward Arthur, noting the way his pupils are dilated, the way his mouth is hanging open just a fraction of an inch.

Unable to help himself, Eames loops his fingers around Arthur's belt, pressing their torsos together, and backs Arthur up against the closest available surface.

Eames kisses Arthur's neck, and Arthur comes helplessly undone under Eames' touch, plastering himself against Eames' chest, kissing him ferociously.

Eames kisses back with enthusiasm, matching the heat in Arthur's kisses with his own, realizing it's been three days since they've properly touched.

"Sodding Cobb," Eames can't help but mutter, bitterly, into Arthur's mouth.

He's even _more_ bitter when this causes Arthur to laugh, breaking the mood irrevocably.

"Cockblocking me when he's not even in the _house_ ," Eames bemoans, earning an affectionate eye roll and a condescending pat on the arse.

"When are they leaving," he whines into Arthur’s ear. Not that he minds the children, so much, but when they leave, they'll be taking Cobb with them. He's really looking forward to that bit.

Arthur smiles sympathetically, gifting Eames with one light, chaste kiss.

Eames realizes after the fact that Arthur was only doing so to butter him up.

He realizes this when Arthur shrugs casually and says, "No idea. Might not be for awhile."

Then he skips out of the room before Eames can respond.

Bloody _Cobb_.

\---

“Not to be a critic, Arthur, but you know that sweater is far too big for you.”

Arthur is carrying a tray of hot chocolate and cookies into the living room, where they’re all playing Monopoly on the floor.

He looks down at himself and laughs.

“This isn’t my sweater.”

Cobb squints, confused. “You’ve worn it everyday we’ve been here.”

Arthur acknowledges this with a slight nod, crouching down to distribute the mugs of hot chocolate and cookies.

“Extra marshmallows?” Eames inquires over his own mug.

Arthur smiles fondly, with just a hint of exasperation. “Of course.”

Eames smiles and blows on his hot chocolate happily in anticipation.

“Arthur?” Dom prompts, once Arthur is sitting cross-legged with the rest of them, and James and Phillipa are busy enough with their drinks and cookies not to mind the delay in the game.

Phillipa is going to win, anyway. She’s seems to have preternatural knack for real estate. Or maybe she’s just a good roller. Eames plans to take credit if it’s the latter.

“Right, it’s not my sweater. It’s Eames.’” Arthur explains.

“Then why are you wearing it?”

Arthur shrugs, and Eames is intrigued, wondering if Arthur will tell Dom the truth.

“I made it for him. It took me months,” too true, “because he kept stealing _my_ sweaters and stretching them out,” also true, admittedly, “so I thought he just liked them.” Arthur pauses, smiling at Eames with the kind of warmth Eames is sure he could never do enough to actually deserve, but is endlessly thankful for, all the same. “But he really just liked the fact that my sweaters smelled like me, that they were soft from how much I’d worn them in. So I’m breaking this one in for him.”

Eames is anticipating a scoff or something equally derisive from Cobb, but instead Cobb looks struck, touched, even, and pats Arthur awkwardly on the shoulder like it’s the best he can do, like he’s trying to say he’s glad but can’t get the words out.

Arthur smiles at Dom like he understands, and they resume the game.

\---

They’ve been here for a week, but on the the eighth night, Dom turns to Arthur and says, “I have a new job lined up. We could really use you.”

Arthur tenses immediately, and Eames had been afraid of this, too.

Afraid of the way Arthur’s shoulders are straightening, the line of his jaw growing taut. Never mind that Eames once came here for the exact same thing. Asking Arthur to go, to dream with him again. But that was before, and Eames will be damned if Arthur’s going to leave now that Eames has decided to stay.

Eames is expecting a fight, but Arthur simply says, “No, thank you,” quietly clinging to the edges of the calm he’s able to inhabit so easily these days.

Dom’s eyes narrow, and Eames can see him calculating, opening his mouth to say “please,” and no-- Eames isn’t letting him even say the word. Arthur has done more for Cobb for less, but not this time.

“No, thank you,” Eames repeats on Arthur’s behalf, putting his hand on Arthur’s knee.

As though that would be enough to keep Arthur with him if he really wanted to go.

He doesn’t, though. Not even a small, distant part of Arthur wants to be anywhere but here. Here with Eames.

Eames is certain of this because of the way Arthur leans instantly into his touch, releasing a soft, relieved sigh as soon as Eames angles their bodies closer.

Arthur’s shoulders slacken, a relaxed smile replacing his frown.

“I’m fine where I am, Dom. But you know you’re always welcome to visit.”

It’s petty, perhaps, but Eames allows himself to feel a frisson of satisfaction, secure in the knowledge that Dom is welcome to visit, while Eames is, and has always been, welcome to stay.

\---

The night after Eames flies Dom and the children back to the mainland, it snows.

Eames finds this absolutely sodding typical, although a small part of him is disappointed that the children left before they could all build a snow-fort together.

“Forts are superior to all other snow structures,” Eames informs Arthur as they watch the storm rage from the comfort of their living room window.

Arthur makes a hum of agreement, resting his chin on Eames’ shoulder.

“We should always make one anyway, even without the kids.”

Eames smiles lazily, turning to kiss Arthur the same way.

“Yes, I suppose we could.”

“Later,” Arthur breathes between kisses.

“Later,” Eames agrees.

\---

In bed, later still, their hair still damp from snow, cheeks rosy with cold, Eames draws Arthur close, wishing he could fold Arthur into himself, wishing he could hold Arthur from all sides.

Arthur shivers against him, either from the cold or from Eames’ proximity, it doesn’t matter which.

Eames kisses Arthur’s hair regardless, murmuring nonsensical comfort, rubbing vigorously against Arthur’s cold skin, encouraging circulation.

“That was fun,” Arthur murmurs, and Eames laughs lightly, wondering what Arthur means.

Building a snow-fort on their own private island? The sex, before, or the cuddling, after?

Or maybe he means further back, referring to Cobb’s visit. The evenings spent smoking cigars on the porch, the rare moments when Cobb wasn’t asking for something Arthur couldn’t give, and Eames could just enjoy sitting in silence between them, not begrudging Cobb’s presence when it put such a soft, content smile on Arthur’s face. The days spent making gingerbread with James and teaching Phillipa how to purl. Competing over the wishbone from the turkey with Eames, smiling like it didn’t matter who won, not when they were both wishing for the same thing.

Eames decides it doesn’t matter _what_ Arthur means, because his response will be the same.

“I’m glad I stayed.” Eames says it softly, almost too softly to be heard, and hopes Arthur knows what he means is, “I love you.”

It doesn’t matter if he actually says the words, if this is as close as they get, not when Arthur smiles into Eames’ neck, and replies, “Me too,” with enough warmth and certainty that Eames is sure Arthur knows exactly what he’s responding to.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] build a town at the bottom of the ocean](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5318933) by [flosculatory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flosculatory/pseuds/flosculatory)




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